The Tournament

The clatter of dishes echoed through the servants' passage as Cecily retreated from the strategy meeting, her mind buzzing with plans and poisoned quail. She paused at a fork in the corridor, one path leading to the armory, the other to the kitchens. From the latter drifted laughter—sharp, unguarded, and laced with the clink of stolen wine.

"Bet you a copper crown the Duke gets skewered in Valenhold," came a muffled voice.

"Done," replied another. "But if he survives, you muck out the stables for a week."

Cecily sighed. Gossip, she thought, the real currency of the estate. She slipped into the shadows, listening.

In a cramped side corridor, two servants huddled over a half-empty bottle of pear wine. Marta, a scullery maid with flour-streaked cheeks, elbowed Jory, a gangly stablehand reeking of hay.

"Heard the king's got a special welcome planned for our 'honored guest,'" Jory snickered. "Like that duel with Edward? Bet His Majesty's got a lion pit waiting."

Marta swigged the wine. "Nah. Royals don't need lions. They've got nobles. Lady Vayne's already ordered three new gowns for the feast—all black. Mourning colors."

"For the Duke?"

"For her dignity. Rumor is, he snubbed her marriage proposal years ago. She's got a memory longer than the king's tax scrolls."

Jory grimaced. "Why's he even going? Court's a death sentence."

"Same reason you stare at the baker's niece: ambition." Marta grinned. "Though Hilda'd gut you with a ladle if you tried courting her."

"Hilda's too busy ruling the kitchens. Did you see the honey cakes she sent to Redbrook? Baron's steward ate six and cried about his childhood."

Marta lowered her voice. "Speaking of Redbrook—my cousin's a groom there. Says they're hiring mercenaries. Lots of mercenaries."

Jory whistled. "For a honey war?"

"For a Duke war. Redbrook's baron wants Montfort's head on a platter. Literally. He's got a silver one commissioned."

The bottle clinked as Marta passed it back. "Still betting on the Duke?"

Jory hesitated. "…Aye. Man survived Edward. Survived us. Give him a week in court, he'll own the place."

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Both servants froze, then scrambled to their feet as Cecily stepped into view.

"Back to work," she said, her tone flat. "And Jory? The stables reek. See to it."

As they scurried off, Cecily plucked the abandoned wine bottle from the floor. Silver platter, she mused. Useful intel, if true.

Cecily strode back to Alistair's study, the stolen wine bottle tucked under her arm. She found him at his desk, scowling at a map of Valenhold's tournament grounds.

"Redbrook's hiring mercenaries," she said, dropping the bottle onto the table. "And the baron's commissioned a silver platter. For your head, apparently."

Alistair didn't look up. "Add it to the list. But we have a more pressing stage to conquer." He tapped the map. "The king just announced a grand tournament. Every noble house is required to sponsor a champion."

Cecily raised an eyebrow. "A distraction from the feast's politics?"

"Or a trap." He rose, rolling the map with a snap. "Gather the council. We're turning this spectacle into a statement."

The war room buzzed with the low growl of seasoned generals and the rustle of parchment. Alistair stood at the head of the table, the tournament map pinned open with daggers. Lysette slouched nearby, polishing a throwing knife, while Berrick hovered at the edge, clutching a ledger.

"This tournament isn't about glory," Alistair began. "It's a proving ground. We win here, and Valenhold's court listens. We lose, and Redbrook's mercenaries won't need that platter."

General Orvin, a grizzled bear of a man with a scarred lip, grunted. "Sponsor a champion? We've no knights loyal enough—or stupid enough—to risk their necks for you."

"We don't need loyalty. We need leverage." Alistair nodded to Lysette.

She flicked her knife into the table, quivering an inch from Orvin's hand. "Found our man. Ser Jarek of the Iron Marches. Ex-mercenary, drowning in gambling debt. Owes the Consortium enough silver to buy a warship."

Berrick paled. "The pirates?"

"He'll fight like a demon to avoid their debtors' pits," Lysette said. "And if he dies? The Consortium writes off the loss. Win-win."

Cecily crossed her arms. "And when the crowd notices our 'champion' is a paid thug?"

"We rebrand him." Alistair tossed a parchment to the table—a fabricated crest. "The 'Last Son of House Volaris,' a tragic lineage slaughtered by bandits. The people love a resurrection."

Orvin snorted. "You'd peddle a mercenary as nobility? The king's heralds will see through that rot."

"The king's heralds are on our payroll," Berrick muttered, adjusting his spectacles. "I've… seen to the records."

A beat of silence. Then laughter barked from the corner—Ser Jarek himself, leaning against the doorframe, his armor dented and his grin sharper than Lysette's blades. "So I'm a noble corpse now? Fine. But I want a cut of the betting pools."

Alistair met his gaze. "Win, and you'll own the pools."

As the council erupted into debates over armor, odds, and alibis, Cecily leaned toward Alistair. "And if Edward sponsors his own champion?"

He glanced at the map, where a cluster of pins marked Redbrook's territories. "Then we'll ensure his champion meets an accident in the melee. Lysette?"

The spymaster smirked. "Already have a scullery maid ready to 'trip' into his ale cask."

***

The midday sun blazed over the estate's bustling courtyard. Ser Jarek sauntered off to "inspect the ale stores" (and drain them), while Alistair lingered at the edge of the training grounds. The clang of steel and shouts of recruits faded as a new sound caught his attention—a booming voice, rich with theatrical flair, rising above the clamor of merchants hawking wares.

"Gather 'round! Tales from beyond the Iron Seas! Wonders to make your sword arm tremble and your purse weep!"

Alistair's eyes narrowed. A distraction—or an opportunity? He followed the voice.

The merchant was a riot of color: his turban threaded with gold, his cloak stitched with scales that shimmered like liquid emerald. A crowd of guards, maids, and curious stablehands pressed close as he brandished a curved blade unlike any in the kingdom.

"Behold!" he cried, slicing the air. "The Zharakan Reaper—forged in the volcanic pits of the Sundered Isles! Wielded by warriors who duel hurricanes for sport!"

A guardsman snorted. "Looks like a fancy scythe. Useless in a real fight."

"Useless?" The merchant tossed the blade to a burly blacksmith in the front row. "Try bending it."

The smith strained, face reddening. The blade didn't budge.

"Lighter than silk, stronger than dragonbone," the merchant crooned, reclaiming it. "And that's not all!" He snapped his fingers, and an assistant unveiled a glass vial of swirling violet smoke. "Sandfire! Toss this in your foe's face, and their screams will sing you to sleep!"

A scullery maid raised a hand. "Does it… kill them?"

"Kill? No, no—melt. Slowly. From the eyes inward." The crowd recoiled, half-horrified, half-fascinated.

Alistair hovered at the back, arms folded.

"And the Zharakan fighting style!" The merchant dropped into a crouch, limbs coiled like springs. "They fight backward! Lure the enemy close, then—" He lunged, the Reaper halting a hair's breadth from a groom's throat. "—Surprise!"

Laughter erupted. Even the skeptical guardsman grinned.

"But the greatest secret?" The merchant lowered his voice, beckoning them closer. "The Zharakan breathe magic. Not spells—soulfire. They swallow storms and spit lightning!"

A boy in the crowd gasped. "Could we learn that?"

"For the right price?" The merchant winked. "All things are possib—"

"Enough fantasy," Alistair interrupted, stepping forward. The crowd parted, murmuring. "Your 'Reaper'—how many have you sold?"

The merchant's smile tightened. "To the unworthy? None. To a visionary…?" He bowed, theatrically deep. "A trifling sum, Lord Montfort."

Alistair traced the blade's edge. Light, balanced, deadly. "I'll take three. And a vial of Sandfire."

As the crowd buzzed, the merchant leaned in, whispering, "They say the Zharakan once devoured their gods to steal their power. A metaphor, of course."

Alistair's gaze sharpened. "Of course."

Alistair walked toward the armory, the Zharakan Reaper blade tucked under his arm. Somewhere in the estate's bowels, Ser Jarek was likely drunk and reciting his fabricated tragic backstory to anyone within earshot.

Alistair's lip curled. Let the fool play his part—for now.

Across the courtyard, a shadow detached itself from the stables. Lysette fell into step beside him. "Edward's gathering his rats in the old chapel. Want me to slit a few throats preemptively?"

"Let them scheme," Alistair said, pausing to watch a hawk circle overhead. "The more they commit to the tournament, the harder they'll fall."

The hawk dove, talons outstretched. Somewhere beneath it, in the chapel's crypt, Edward's voice rose in a venomous crescendo.

The crypt was a womb of damp stone and guttering torchlight. Edward paced before a makeshift table, his reflection warped in the blade of a discarded broadsword. Around him clustered his inner circle: the scarred captain Garrick, the serpent-eyed tax collector Veyn, and the ink-stained mage Corrin. A fourth figure lingered in the shadows—a hooded mercenary with Redbrook's wolf sigil stitched into his cloak.

"This tournament is our crucible," Edward hissed. "We break Alistair here, and the court will erase him."

Garrick slammed a fist on the table. "Let me challenge Ser Jarek in the melee. I'll carve that pirate-loving pretender into ribbons."

Veyn toyed with a gold coin, his smile sly. "Why waste effort on the champion? Poison the fool's wine. When he vomits mid-duel, the crowd will laugh Montfort out of Valenhold."

Corrin unrolled a parchment scrawled with runes. "Or let my… associates in the Holy Order inspect his Zharakan toys. A whispered rumor of heresy, and the king's own zealots will drag him to the pyre."

Edward's gaze slid to the Redbrook mercenary. "Your baron's silver platter. Will it be ready?"

The mercenary grunted. "Aye. Polished enough to see his face when you sever his head."

"No." Edward snatched the coin from Veyn's fingers. "Death's too kind. I want him alive. Broken. Begging." He crushed the coin in his fist. "We sabotage Ser Jarek and his reputation. Spread word he's a fraud—then have Garrick defeat him in front of the entire court. When Alistair's 'noble' champion is exposed as a debt-ridden mercenary…"

Veyn's eyes lit. "The Montfort name becomes a punchline. Even the king would strip his titles."

Corrin traced a rune on the parchment. "And if that fails? The Sandfire he bought from the merchant… a drop in his wine, and he'll melt during his victory speech."

Edward's smile was a knife. "Then we watch. And savor."

The Redbrook mercenary shifted. "My baron wants assurances. If Montfort falls, the honey trade…"

"—Will flow to Redbrook," Edward finished. "Along with every coin Alistair stole."

Garrick chuckled, dark and low. "To the end of the Slothful Duke."

The torchlight flared as they raised stolen goblets, their shadows rearing like wolves on the walls. Above them, in the chapel's nave, a rook cawed—a harsh, discordant sound.

Edward glanced upward, his resolve hardening. This time, brother, there's no magic to save you.